


Holiday Multitasking

by Monsterunderkilt



Series: The Manse [34]
Category: Actor RPF, Celebrities - Fandom, RPF - Fandom, Real Person Fanfic - Fandom, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27718073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsterunderkilt/pseuds/Monsterunderkilt
Summary: The gang spends some time together crafting, cooking, and decorating during Thanksgiving vacation
Series: The Manse [34]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1209447
Kudos: 1





	Holiday Multitasking

The dining room table is covered in newspapers. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ is playing on the living room TV. The tree is up, and boxes of ornaments and other Christmas decorations are piled on the sofa. The windows and back patio doors are open, so the glorious Floridian November weather can sweep away the odor of all the spray adhesive and replace it with the fulsome scent of deep-fried latkes coming from the kitchen.

Tilda, Ben, Alan, and I are sitting around the table, sifting through trays and boxes of crafting supplies. Dried pasta shapes, pipe cleaners, beads, rhinestones, glue sticks, styrofoam, and toothpicks serve as our smorgasbord to construct our various holiday crafts. Jon is distractedly hanging garland on the tree while trying to pay attention to the sick dance moves Gandalf is displaying at Bilbo’s birthday party. Stephen, in a Hanukkah-themed apron and Star-of-David-print oven mitts, is diligently manning the stove, flipping the potato pancakes at just the right moment to achieve golden perfection.

“So is imagination truly the child of pain, you think?” Tilda asks, serenely stringing glass beads onto a silver thread.

I wrinkle my brow as I search for the perfect elbow macaroni. “Oh I definitely think. Was there not a scene with lines to that effect in _Richard II?_ ”

“Not exactly,” Ben says, eyes never leaving the folded paper that he is cautiously cutting with an Exact-O knife. “Richard said ‘My brain I’ll prove the female to my soul, my soul the father, and these two beget a generation of still-breeding thoughts; and these some thoughts people this little world.’”

“Oh yeah, I remember now,” I say, re-loading the glue gun. “He was imprisoned and alone and felt he had no choice but to create a world of his own. Like Hamlet in his nutshell.”

“Still, the pain of losing his crown catalyzed his state of imagination,” Tilda adds.

“Certainly,” Ben says.

“But not all imagination must come from pain,” Alan says as he dumps a mound of rainbow glitter over whatever the hell it is he’s making with pipe cleaners. “Sometimes it’s just immaculately conceived.”

I hold up a rigatoni-capped finger.“I think it may seem that way sometimes, but imagination ultimately comes from some lack that we feel must be amended through a creative act. It’s a small pain that’s the grain of sand that irritates the pearl from the oyster.”

Tilda nods as she picks up a large faceted teardrop. “If we all had perfect lives, it would be a waste of time to imagine ourselves out of the bliss.”

There’s a sudden crash of sound from the TV as The Ring freaks Frodo out, accompanied by cursing, which is definitely not in the film.

“FUCK!” Jon yelps. “I dropped it, SHIT.”

I cringe. “What did you break, Jon?”

“I’m so sorry bubbe, but I cracked one of your glass flamingos.”

Everyone watches me frown. I sigh heavily. “It’s coming out of your allowance, young man.”

“STEPHEN! I still don’t understand why I’m the one doing the Christmas thing and you’re the one doing the Hanukkah thing.”

“Because you can’t cook latkes to save your soul, JON!” Stephen yells across three rooms. “But apparently we can’t trust you with nice things either.”

“This is why I’m going back on TV soon,” Jon mumbles. “This was all the fault of The Ring anyway.”

“Sure, blame it on The Ring, Gollum!”

I turn toward the kitchen and ask “Hey, how is lunch coming along, anyway?”

“Nearly there, corn muffin.”

“I wish there were corn muffins as well,” Alan says as he spritzes something with the spray glue. “With butter and honey.”

Ben sticks his tongue out as he carves another hole out of what looks like bizarre origami. “Stephen’s Charleston cheese biscuits are the best.”

“How do all y’all stay so skinny with the plethora of carbs around here?” I ask.

“The Manse is magical,” Tilda offers, still beading away. “I thought that was obvious.”

“So this is why you jumped out of bed so early?”

We all glance up as Sir enters the dining room, stretching his arms out in front of him in an inquisitive manner. He’s barely dressed for company: just a black tank top and heather gray sweatpants from Primark. And yet, I immediately think DAMN his shoulders look good.

Ken’s voice goes up an octave. “Why wasn’t I invited?”

I force myself to focus on my pasta again. “Because you’re always busy in the office either writing your super secret screenplay or doing Zoom calls with producers,” I say. “You have your projects and I have mine.”

Sir slips into the chair next to me and kisses my own bare shoulder. The ensuing goosebumps rush straight to my brain and give me naughty thoughts. _How does he do that every goddamn time?_

“Well, I’m done for the day,” he says. “Is there anything I may help you with, my dear?”

“Sure, you can glue these wooden balls to one end of the rigatoni, then stick a farfalle on the back like this.”

“What are we making?”

“Pasta angels.”

“Oh, how twee.”

Alan lifts up his own pipe cleaner ornament from another mound of glitter and shakes off the excess. “Success!” he hisses. “The most fabulous snowflake on the planet!”

We all nod our heads in agreement.

“Ow, bollocks!” Ken curses, shaking his hand and then sucking on the tip of his finger.

“What now?”

“These things are HOT!” Ken gasps.

“Kenneth, honestly,” Tilda chides gently. “You swing swords and jab bare bodkins onstage and in movies for decades and you can’t handle a glue gun for thirty seconds?”

Just then, with a fantastic flourish, Ben unfolds his paper and holds it up, revealing the most impossibly intricate paper snowflake anyone has ever seen. We all clap and Ohhh and Ahhh over it and Ben blushes.

“And all without cutting yourself,” Tilda says, smiling. “Well done.”

“What have you got there, Tilly?” Ken asks.

She ties off one last bead, drapes her creation over a silver glass tree bauble, then raises it up for all to see.The beads dangle and sparkle as it spins between her fingers. “It’s a _ballgown_.”

“Ahhhhhhhh,” we all say, smiling and nodding at her pun.

“GET ‘EM WHILE THEY’RE HOT, FOLKS!”

We simultaneously drop everything and stampede into the nook, where Stephen has placed a mountain of latkes with applesauce and sour cream on the side.

Jon trots in last, but somehow sits down first. He rubs his palms together and grabs the first pancake off the top and takes a quick crunchy bite. His eyes roll back into his skull and he moans. “Ohhhh, oh Stephen. Oh, yes, Stephen, yasss baby.”

Stephen takes off his mitts with pride, then pulls out a chair at the table for me. “That’s what _she_ said.”


End file.
